Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (22 page)

Daniel gave his name but shook his head at the same time. “There’s no call to offer that. All I did was shoulder your wagon out of some mud.”

“My offer holds.” Brennan grasped Daniel’s shoulder as though they’d been friends for a long time and looked down at the mud caking Daniel’s clothes and boots. “Anytime you need something hauled, Ranslett, you just let Mullins know when and where.”

Daniel watched the freighter maneuver his team on down the street, glad he’d decided to make the trip into town after all. He’d awakened early that morning thinking about Davy and the Tuckers . . . and peppermint. He was due to take Miss Westbrook hunting tomorrow, but if early morning skies held accurate prediction, snow was returning, despite the warmer temperatures.

Glad he’d brought an extra change of clothes along, he headed to a nearby creek that was fed by a hot spring. He stripped and rinsed his face, hands, and arms, then re-dressed and dropped his clothes off at a laundry in town. The Chinese woman behind the counter greeted him in an unfamiliar tongue, but somehow they communicated enough for him to know to pick up his clothes tomorrow.

His hankering for peppermint returned, the kind Mullins always kept in stock. But he didn’t want some just for himself. And where he was headed today, he would need at least two full tins.

He hoped Miss Westbrook had a copy of that picture of the Tuckers’ children too. If not, he planned on persuading her to make one right quick.

Close to noon, Elizabeth pushed back from the desk in her bedroom and yawned and stretched, ready for fresh air and exercise. The bright sunshine and warmer temperatures beckoned, and there was plenty of time before her appointment with Mr. Hawthorne.

She’d spent the morning cleaning and organizing her camera equipment and making certain she’d recorded the details for each photograph taken since her arrival at Timber Ridge. Her right hand ached from gripping the quill, and she wiggled her fingers to ease the tension. Feeling another headache coming on, she poured a cup of lukewarm tea and added an extra dash of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. She ran a thumb along the edge of the nearly full journal.

The pages in this volume contained particulars for every photograph she’d ever taken, including those taken with Mathew Brady. Comparing the information always deepened her understanding of the use of light and shadow, and of the distance needed from an object in order to capture detail without sacrificing essence.

She looked forward to the hunting trip tomorrow with Daniel Ranslett. And since Saturday was slated to be spent visiting Rachel Boyd, and Sunday afternoon at the general store taking photographs of whoever showed, she’d spent the bulk of last evening cooped up in her room, making prints of developed plates, including the one Carnes stopped by to pick up. He was a peculiar little fellow with an odd way about him. It had taken her a moment to realize what he’d been doing, but he’d actually invited her out to dinner. Through a haze of formaldehyde, she had politely declined.

Not long after Carnes left, Drayton Turner had arrived. He’d been like a kid in a candy shop as he anticipated publishing the first edition of the
Reporter
to contain photographs. He’d already dropped by this morning to tell her he’d sold all his copies and was printing more. His highest distribution ever.

He’d been complimentary of the other photographs he’d seen in her collection, and she’d let him borrow two more for future publication in the newspaper. His praise was gratifying, and she had a feeling he didn’t hand it out lightly.

She reached for her copy of the
Reporter
again and read her name beneath the photograph. Not
E.G. Brenton
but
Elizabeth Garrett Westbrook.
It felt good to see her name in the heavy-faced type. She’d been relieved to read that Turner had reported Coulter’s cause of death as inconclusive. Not a single mention of Josiah either, thankfully.

She’d asked Josiah about his run-in with Coulter but hadn’t said anything about Coulter dying from a broken neck. Josiah admitted the man had threatened him. “Stuff like that been said to me my whole life, Miz Westbrook. If I tucked tail and run every time a white man threaten me, I’da wore my legs off for sure by now.” Seated on the boardwalk, he had leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. “I gets up each day and I face what God gives me to handle, ma’am. Sometimes I fear it. Won’t say that I don’t. But knowin’ He’s already sifted through it and that Jesus knows what’s comin’ before it gets to me . . . well, I reckon that ought to be enough.”

Such wisdom and trust from a man who had been so misused in his life. How had Josiah developed such trust?

Elizabeth found herself wishing she had that kind of faith. It wasn’t a prayer, really, more of a longing, but she felt it drift up and out of her, light and freeing, and she hoped God was listening. Then thinking of all that Josiah had endured in his life, she went still inside. Quickly, she tried to recall the thought, telling God it hadn’t been a prayer. But somehow she knew it was already gone from her, and in His hands.

A knock on her door interrupted the moment, and she rose from her desk. If it was Drayton Turner again, she was going to send him a bill for taking up so much of her—

“Ranslett!” Seeing Daniel Ranslett standing there on her threshold pleased her more than she could have imagined. A thwacking on the wooden floor drew her focus downward. “And Beau too!” She reached down to pet him. “To what do I owe this honor, Ranslett?”

His smile was reminiscent of a schoolboy’s. “We were passing by and thought we’d stop in and say hello.”

Knowing that wasn’t true, Elizabeth said the first thing that came to her mind. “Well, I’m very busy this morning, so you’ll have to make it a quick visit.”

“Okay. Well, good-bye, then.” He walked down the hallway and only stopped when she started to laugh. He closed the distance between them again. “I’m actually here on a mission.”

“I figured as much.”

He held a frown for two seconds. “I’d like to have a copy of the photograph of the Tucker children you took the other day. And that one of Beau, if you have it.”

She warmed, already guessing why he wanted them. “I’ve got the pictures for the Tuckers right here. I developed them last night. I was going to leave them at the mail counter at the store but haven’t done it yet.” She’d printed an extra copy of the children in order to satisfy her father’s whim of seeing her “pupils.” She would have to tell him the truth eventually, but that would be more easily done when she returned to Washington a success.

Ranslett pulled the photographs from the envelope. He looked at the picture of the children, then at the one of Beau, which had turned out especially nice. He didn’t speak right off, but he smiled. “Well done, Miss Westbrook.”

The sincerity in his voice was touching, and she guided him to the last one in the stack, anticipating his reaction.

He went still. “This is . . . How did you . . .” He traced a path over the picture, a smile slowly forming. “This is my favorite by far. Thank you.”

His tender reaction brought about one in her.

“When did you take this?”

She swallowed to ease the tightening in her throat. “When you and Mr. Tucker and the rest of the boys were unloading the meat. All Davy wanted to do was to sit and stare at Beau. So it wasn’t too hard to capture.” Plus the fact that it seemed to hurt the boy to move, but she wasn’t about to say that. Surely, Ranslett already knew. Two things had been obvious to her that afternoon at the Tuckers’, and more so as the days had passed and she’d had time to consider it—Daniel cared deeply for the boy, and the boy was ill.

“You certainly have a gift, Miss Westbrook. It’s just like looking at him.”

She moved beside him to peer at the photograph. “Davy has a hard time holding a smile, and since I lack the ability to inspire one in my subjects, we decided to have him lying down just looking at Beau. And Beau looking at him.”

“I can’t believe Beau stayed still that long.” He reached down and patted the dog’s head. “Good boy . . .”

“Actually, he didn’t. Or not all of him anyway. Notice his tail is ghosted. And so are his ears.”

Ranslett softly laughed. “The picture is perfect, ma’am. Is there any way I could get a copy of the image for myself? I’ll give these to the Tuckers.”

So she’d guessed correctly. “Are you heading out there today?”

“Right after a trip to the store for some peppermints.”

She half hoped he’d invite her along, even though she couldn’t go. “I’ll be happy to make you a print, Ranslett.”

He eyed her. “What’s it going to cost me?”

She pretended to think of something. “How about . . . a day of hunting.”

He winced. “That’s another thing I’m here to talk to you about. I know we set tomorrow to go but it looks like more snow’s coming in. It’ll be bitter cold, regardless. I think we ought to set it for another day next week.”

She glanced to the window, then back at him, showing her suspicion.

“I know it’s nice out right now, but trust me on this. The cold’s coming.”

“How do I know you’re not just trying to get out of it?”

“Because if I’d wanted out of it, I wouldn’t have come here to set another date.”

She found his argument convincing enough. Though it was still hard to imagine more snow with such sunshine.

He held up the envelope. “The Tuckers will appreciate these. And I’ll enjoy delivering them. Thank you, again.”

“You’re welcome,
again.
Oh . . .” She wondered whether to tell him her news, then figured he’d learn about it soon enough. “I found a guide to lead my expedition to the cliff dwellings.” It was petty, she knew, but she rather enjoyed the surprise on his face. “I confirmed his credentials. He’s reputable and experienced, and he’s already working with Mr. Mullins to secure supplies. We leave one week from today.”

He didn’t respond.

“So if you happened to have changed your mind about my previous job offer . . .” She did a fair job of sounding serious, but her grin gave her away. “And you came here today with the intent of saying you’re now interested”—she knew he wasn’t—“then I’d have to tell you that I’m sorry, and that I’ve already hired someone else.”

He bowed his head for a second before meeting her stare again. “Be careful, Miss Westbrook. What you’re proposing to do is dangerous.”

The change in his demeanor took her by surprise. “I was only kidding, Ranslett. Of course I understand the seriousness of what I’m—”

“You think you do, but with all respect . . . you don’t. You’ve taken a few day trips in these mountains and now you think you’re experienced. But you’re not.”

It wasn’t easy, but she reined in the urge to argue with him. His caution, however well intended, picked at an old wound. If not for the tenderness in his delivery and having fought this battle so many times before, she would have retaliated. But nothing she could say would change Ranslett’s mind. He was the type who had to see the outcome in order to be convinced. Just like her father.

And she planned on showing them both—along with everyone else—that she could do this. And do it well.

The planked walkway was unusually crowded for early afternoon, and after nearly colliding twice with two separate shoppers, Elizabeth opted for the street, watchful of the animal droppings littering the muddy path. Untidy streets was one unfortunate similarity Timber Ridge and Washington shared.

She met with Mr. Hawthorne at Mattie’s Porch to go over the final details of their trip and to meet the other gentleman who would be joining them on the expedition. He seemed an upright man, younger than Hawthorne, accustomed to hard work, and experienced enough from the stories he told.

As they worked through each item on her list, Ranslett’s cautions kept playing in the back of her mind. And repeatedly she put them aside.

Josiah joined them and they ordered a late lunch, though she didn’t touch her food. She didn’t have much appetite. Several women approached her table saying that they were bringing their entire families to the Mullinses’ store for their first photograph sitting that Sunday. And when she stopped by the general store on the way home to thank Ben and Lyda Mullins for volunteering to host the sittings, she received several more comments from people who said the same.

By the time she returned to the boardinghouse, whatever trepidations she’d had about making the upcoming journey were a distant memory. She was actually making a difference in this town, in people’s lives. She was leaving her mark. How she wished Tillie could see what her encouragement and challenge had accomplished.

Josiah was waiting on the boardwalk when she returned. Beside him were two large crates. “Clerk at the mail counter in the store left word that these come in on the stage for you. So’s I hauled them over here for you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Josiah. What is it?”

“I ain’t looked inside, Miz Westbrook. They got your name on ’em, ma’am, not mine.”

She ran a hand over the top of one of the crates and read the originating address. Her father . . . An envelope was affixed to the side. She pulled it free and lifted the flap.